We Had More Than Enough Ingredients to Begin With

Once I was fully ready to head out, I walked over to Hannah, who still hadn't gotten out of bed. Today's classes had been canceled, giving us one more day together—and thanks to that, just yesterday we'd finally made it out to Stone Mountain Park, taking couple photos together amid the scenery.

Carefully, I reached out and stroked her hair, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and told her I was heading out first. Hannah rolled over and smiled in her sleep.

Click.

As always, my day began before dawn.

Morning training. Breakfast. Recovery. Lunch. Class. Having dutifully worked through everything the day demanded as I made my rounds across campus, I returned to Butts-Mehre around four in the afternoon.

And then—

“Huh? What's that over there?”

“An interview. A local station came out to cover them.”

“...It's not some 'dynamic duo of freshmen' segment, is it?”

“How'd you know?”

So I'd guessed right after all. A weary little sigh escaped me. But I didn't let it show, and answered Maggie Gibson—who had kindly filled me in—with a smile.

“Just a hunch.”

“Good instincts. I'm impressed.”

“I keep my mind sharp at all times.”

“Haha. You really are a fun one.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Of course.”

What I was watching from the Butts-Mehre lobby was this: two freshmen seated in chairs against the wall that chronicled Georgia football history, a broadcast crew positioned in front of them.

For the record, those two freshmen were Brock and AD.

“Apparently it's the first time ever that a freshman wide receiver and a freshman tight end have each recorded two touchdowns in back-to-back games.”

Ah—

So that was the reason.

Just as Maggie had said, Brock and AD had each put up two touchdowns against South Carolina on top of what they'd done against UAB. Both of those had come off my four touchdown passes in the last game, and with them Brock was now first in the nation in tight end touchdowns, while AD sat tied for third among all wide receivers.

It was still early in the season, so there was no guarantee rankings like that would hold—but what I wanted to say to those two was simply this: enjoy moments like these for all they're worth.

“I'll get going.”

“Yeah. Good work today.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Our opponent this coming weekend was Vanderbilt—like us, a member of the SEC East Division.

Through the early 2010s, they'd at least maintained a respectable middle-of-the-pack roster, but the program fell apart after James Franklin, who was coaching Vanderbilt at the time, left for Penn State. Derek Mason, hired at the university president's choosing, was somehow guaranteed a full seven-year tenure despite abysmal performances—only to get hammered and fired last year anyway.

For the record, Vanderbilt went 0–9 last season. A winless year, and that was without facing us or Alabama.

This year they sat at 1–2, and since their lone win came against Colorado State of the MWC, nobody could claim they'd gotten better. The only recent data point worth anything was last week's game against Stanford of the Pac-12, which Vanderbilt lost 23–41.

The Stanford Cardinal are the Pac-12's worst team.

Worse than them would be Arizona, I think?

For the record, Arizona State—where Hannah goes—is 2–1 in the Pac-12, a team good enough to at least reach a bowl game at the end of the year.

Anyway.

“You need to settle down a little, Van.”

“...”

“You've got a good arm, and you move well too. Don't tense up—calm your mind. Find your own rhythm. You play better when you're on the move, so don't just plant yourself in the pocket.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good.”

After back-to-back blowout wins over the last two games, everything around us seemed to brim with optimistic outlooks—but Van was the one source of unease.

Especially what he'd shown in the fourth quarter against South Carolina had been dismal enough that people were already muttering it had been a recruiting mistake and the backup quarterback spot needed to be refilled with someone new.

In a way, it was only because he was being measured against me, so I did feel a little sorry for him—but Van needed to feel the need to grow on his own.

That is, if he wanted to keep playing in the SEC.

“LET'S GO—!! Let's roll for real!!”

Afternoon practice began after a quick warm-up.

Mondays were generally conditioning days. Tuesdays were devoted to weight training, Wednesdays built the tactical foundation for Saturday's game, and Thursday and Friday were spent rehearsing it so the team could step onto the field in perfect shape the next day—that was the weekly pattern.

It almost never changed.

Consistency mattered that much.

“You hear the news?”

“What news?”

“About George.”

KJ hung out with George more than anyone.

Me included, but KJ was his real best friend.

According to KJ, George was apparently thinking about sitting out the entire season and going straight into the NFL Draft.

Didn't he say he'd be back by November?

Last I heard, he was supposed to rejoin team training in October.

“I guess getting hurt this time traumatized him.”

“Do the coaches know about this?”

“Yeah. Seems like it.”

Unless he was deliberately stalling, persuading George to come back to the field would have to fall to the coaches.

And we obviously needed George.

He was the team's No. 1 receiver.

George was like Jordan, AD, and JB all rolled into one, so having him on the field made my job that much easier too.

Up to now we'd looked dominant, sure, but we'd mostly faced weaker opponents—and starting in October we'd be meeting nationally ranked teams. More weapons was an unqualified good.

And yet I understood how George felt, too.

One more injury and everything would turn to dust.

Hearing his name called on draft night and making it to the NFL was the dream of every college student who played football. Coming back from a major injury like a torn ACL was exactly the kind of thing a man could hesitate over.

“He'll be alright.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Let's go. I'm about to collapse from hunger.”

“Yeah.”

Click.

I came out of the showers, got dressed, and headed to the dining hall with everyone for dinner.

Monday was nearly over.

But I—

“How's this one?”

“...Mm. It's garbage.”

“Damn it. Isn't there anything decent?”

“If there is, I haven't found it—I'm looking too.”

The assignment the president had handed me—I was grinding away at it with my friends, determined to finish it before the Arkansas game in the first week of October.

God—

I'd rather memorize ten play books.

My head was about to cramp.

Scribble, scribble.

We left Athens early in the morning and, after roughly an hour of flying, arrived in Nashville, Tennessee—site of tomorrow's game.

After dropping our bags at the hotel, we broke into groups of ten including our coaches and headed out to see the sights around downtown, grabbed lunch out, then made it back to the hotel on schedule.

Last year, COVID had locked us inside the hotel on every road trip, so being able to actually do things this year was a welcome change.

Though we did wear our masks the entire time.

“Goddamn. I seriously can't believe it.”

“Oh, please. You're still on that?”

“No, but seriously.”

“Quit whining already.”

“Huh? What's going on?”

As Run Game Coordinator Dell McGee came over, Zamir told him what he'd witnessed earlier.

“People were asking ONLY him for autographs, Coach!”

“...And why does that matter?”

“There were over TEN of them! They didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to me or any of the other guys—only to him!”

Coach McGee stared at me with an expression that plainly asked what on earth this was about, and I shook my head with a sigh.

But Zamir showed no sign of stopping.

“We're not in Athens or on Georgia's campus—we're in Tennessee, three hundred miles away, and TEN random strangers saw through his mask and his hat, walked up, and walked away with autographs?! Dam—!! What college football player does that?! Even NFL players aren't this big!”

So what exactly are you trying to say, honestly.

That it's fascinating? Is that it?

“Goddamn it. My stomach hurts.”

“Oh, please. That's all it is?”

“It's just that you're like a busted, overpowered QB.”

“A busted QB, yes. At the very least, on our team.”

Smack!

“Ugh!”

The moment Coach Monken smacked the back of Zamir's head, I felt my long-bottled frustration wash away. I gave a silent thumbs-up.

“If you're going to waste energy, why not save it and dump it all on the field tomorrow? Aren't you even a little embarrassed to be getting outscored in touchdowns by freshmen?”

“Well, that's because he—”

Smack!

“Ah—ow! Coach!”

“We run option plays. If you'd kept your head on straight even a little, more chances would've come. Plenty of them.”

Last year he'd recorded 15 rushing touchdowns—tied for second in the SEC and fifth in the nation.

This year, he was stuck at just two rushing touchdowns so far, and he wasn't bringing any punch in the red zone.

Granted, the tactical side of attacking the gaps mattered too, but Zamir's trademark downhill aggression, or the way he used to redirect on his own after contact, hadn't shown itself at all this season.

As a result, his yards per game had dropped by more than 20, and even the head coach knew it, leaning on the other running backs more.

Why was Zamir acting like this all of a sudden?

Same story as George.

The NFL.

Every year, once the college football season kicked off, mock draft chatter about the following April exploded—and Zamir was being projected as a third-to-fourth round pick.

With a lucky break he might hear his name in the second round, but the consensus was that his flaws were too glaring for that to be likely—and at the same time, nobody thought he'd slide all the way to day three.

So Zamir had been protecting his body lately.

He played exactly as much as asked. Not a down more.

“Whew— this one, that one...”

“It's fine, Coach.”

“?”

“If Zamir and George want to guard their bodies, then hand me other options instead. You've got JC, right? He's been building momentum lately. He genuinely believes he's getting drafted on day one. And beyond him—Jordan, AD, Ladd, Brock. There are plenty of guys champing at the bit to play. Even if those two don't give everything they have, I can get it done, Coach.”

“...Right. You're not wrong.”

“Receivers, huh. That's just how they are?”

“Greedy, selfish sons of bitches, every last one of them.”

“My point exactly.”

I'd said it back in high school too, but receivers were inherently selfish.

The O-line guys and the defense were willing to throw their bodies into the fire every single game, regardless of whether the NFL was in their future—but receivers, as a rule, protected themselves.

That's why the tough running backs and wide receivers earned such glowing evaluations—yet, ironically, those were exactly the guys who never lasted long.

NFL franchises figured out that signing those players cheap on rookie deals, using them up, and tossing them away was a tidy profit, and over time receivers learned more and more to treat their own bodies like treasure.

No athlete ever handled their body carelessly, but on the receiver side of things, the tendency ran especially deep.

“Let's go. The bus is here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

My teammates' self-interest didn't sting me in the slightest.

If anything, it fueled me.

Maybe it was a habit left over from my days as a head coach?

Cooking with ingredients that were already the best available was one thing—but taking an ingredient nobody else had recognized, trimming it with my own hands, and turning it into a magnificent dish had always felt far more satisfying.

Brock and AD, riding a wave of momentum.

And Jordan, on his way back.

James Cook, willing to do absolutely anything asked of him.

And above all—

The O-linemen who kept me upright.

I boarded the bus with a light step and took my usual seat beside Darnell.

Come to think of it—right, him too.

The best blocking tight end in the game.

We had more than enough ingredients to begin with.

Barely eight minutes and twenty seconds into the game, it was effectively already over.

Of the four possessions Vanderbilt had earned, they'd fumbled two of them away, struggled to gain even a single yard, and done absolutely nothing on the field.

Today, Vanderbilt was demonstrating that being in the SEC didn't automatically make a team good.

“This is too easy! Way too easy!!”

“Hey! Hey!!”

“?”

“Don't get ahead of yourself. There's a lot of game left.”

“Oh, come on—fine. It is easy, though, isn't it?”

Zamir trudged off, thoroughly deflated, and I sat back down on the bench with the play book, combing through tactics for our next drive.

Points had come so much easier than we'd expected that we'd barely touched any of what we'd prepared.

In fact, just a little while ago Jordan and JB had come up to me, pressed me to push strategies built around them as targets, and then wandered off.

“They say Vandy's only gained seven yards so far.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“...Still, I have to keep everyone focused.”

Slackness was already creeping into the offense—but I had to make sure we stayed locked in.

“Mo—i!”

Huh?

Already?

I lifted my head toward the voice—and Vanderbilt's special teams unit was jogging onto the field.

That was fast.

“What do you want?”

“I get to choose?”

“No time. Talk.”

“Commando.”

“Damn it. Don't you love that one a little too much?”

“Score fast—and let's aim for 40.”

“...No sympathy in you at all. I like it.”

I had never once cultivated mercy on a football field.

And I never would.

Coach Monken, accepting my suggestion, tapped my helmet and told me to get in there—and I let out a thunderous roar before sprinting onto the field.

Then I quickly formed the huddle.

“Turbo, Commando. Nothing else needed—just do your jobs right.”

Clap!

Blocking assignments for the O-line, second reads, contingencies—I called none of it.

Against Vanderbilt's level, none of it mattered.

The formation set up in a flash, and I raised my voice.

“Go, RED 80—!! Turbo, set!!”

Under-center snap.

Turbo call.

After taking the handoff I dropped back calmly, and watching JB bolt into a dead sprint downfield, I flung the ball.